


Strings Attached

by Wanderlust_Skies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character study (sort of), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6763801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderlust_Skies/pseuds/Wanderlust_Skies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England knew that France watched his reaction carefully. If he could just remain indifferent, maybe the Frenchman would not notice anything out of place. But goddammit, that was difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Game We Play

_Get a grip, Kirkland._

England drummed his fingers on the conference table as he eyed the clock. He shifted in his seat, passing a quick look around the conference table. Half of the present nations had bored expressions. Truthfully, none of them wanted to even be there. Arthur's eyes gravitated to a small red string tied around the thumb of the current presenter. _All you have to do is stay calm and not blow a bloody gasket,_ he told himself as he returned his gaze back to the speaker. 

Emerald eyes met cerulean. The latter winked. 

Arthur looked away; a sudden rush of warmth occupied his cheeks. With a huff, he crossed his arms. _Calm down,_ he chanted in his mind. _Just a few more minutes left and then you won’t have to seem him for another month._ In the past several meetings, England made it a point to return back to his hotel room as quickly as possible. It was awkward, to say the least. He avoided the looks the other nations sent his way when he packed up his things and left without a word. But thankfully no one asked any questions. 

So this time, he hoped that it was the same drill. Once Germany announced the end of the weeklong meeting sessions, England gathered his things as fast as possible. He quickly organized his notes before practically throwing them in his briefcase. He just had to lock his briefcase and— 

“Angleterre?” 

The island nation froze momentarily. “What?” He fumbled with the lock in his haste. 

“Do you ‘ave a moment?” 

_No._ “Make it quick,” he responded, not looking up. _Why did I say that?_

“Is everyt’ing okay?” 

England gulped. “Just fine.” Like hell he would actually give any hint of what he—

“Are you sure?” 

“What are you? My therapist?” Kirkland asked in annoyance, finally glaring at France. 

The Frenchman looked back at him. “I was just asking,” he said innocently. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Listen, I need to be somewhere.” By somewhere, he meant his hotel room, getting reacquainted with a lovely bottle of scotch waiting for him once he returned. 

France nodded. "I see..." _Why aren't you leaving?_ "If you need any help, you know my number."

Arthur felt his heart race as he off-handedly responded, "Good to know." _Dammit, why do you do this to me?_ The flamboyant country sauntered away, enabling the thick-browed man to scurry out of the room. 

By the time Arthur made it to the safety of the elevator— thank god he was alone— he sighed in relief. Finally. Some peace and quiet. 

He checked his watch out of habit, failing to notice a hand appear between the doors before they were able to close. The elevator opened once again, allowing a new passenger to step inside. England looked back up, just in time to see Francis with his arm extended, presenting a manila folder to him. “You left this.” 

Arthur nearly had a heart attack.

For a brief moment, he was unable to answer. His reply was caught in his throat. He couldn't even look at Francis in the eye without triggering a faster heart rate. “Thanks,” the Englishman muttered as he grabbed the folder. He watched the doors close and felt his heart drop. _Great. Of all the things that could’ve happened, it just had to be this._

England knew that France watched his reaction carefully. If he could just remain indifferent, maybe the Frenchman would not notice anything out of place. But goddammit, that was difficult. 

This was Arthur in that moment: stuck in an elevator with the one person he spent the past few days avoiding as much as possible with, he glanced at the floor level indicator, seven floors left in the ride. 

_Don't panic. Relax._

He was close to hyperventilating right then and there. France stood too close to the Englishman for his liking. The only thing Arthur felt control over was where he looked; even that wasn't much in the cramped space. 

There was a silence between the two. 

They spoke volumes without the need for words. Whether it was the cautious glance to see if the other looked at them, the rustle of clothes, or the incessant tapping of their feet. When the elevator was one floor below, there was a little voice in the back of England's mind. He knew that this was Francis's chance to ask him about his sudden departures after each meeting. He held his breath. 

England gripped his suitcase tightly as he watched France step in front of the panel and activated the emergency stop button before the doors opened. The elevator shuddered in protest. “What the hell are you—” 

“Why are you avoiding moi?” France turned to Arthur and locked eyes with him.

Without missing a beat, England responded, “I have no idea what you're talking about.” His emerald gaze dared the Frenchman to continue. 

“Really?” France said, raising a plucked eyebrow. 

“Really,” England spat, perhaps a tad too forceful. He moved to deactivate the emergency stop, only to have Francis completely block the panel. 

“Was it somet'ing I said?” _Are we seriously going to play this game?_

“No, there is nothing wrong.” 

The Frenchman scoffed in reply. “I doubt that.”

“France,” he doesn't need this right now. _Just let me be, you fool._ “Open the blasted door.”

“Non. Not until I get an answer from you.”

“You just did,” Arthur countered. “I said I'm fine.” 

France paused and let out a small laugh. “How long do we 'ave to keep playing t'is game, Art'ur?” 

England swore he felt his blood pressure rise as his eyes widened a fraction. It was unnatural for the Frenchman to say his human name. “What bloody game?” 

“T'is!” France's expression didn't change, but Arthur knew what he truly felt. He was confused. Maybe even frustrated. It was a side only Arthur witnessed firsthand. 

France—Gaul—made sure to carefully control what expression he conveyed, but England—Albion— knew too much, far too much to not pick up on his rival's true emotions. Centuries of interaction with him guaranteed that. “We are not playing any game.” _Liar._ “There is nothing wrong.” _He won't believe that._ “Just leave me the hell alone!” _...now you've done it._ He made his way to the panel, nearly shoving the Frenchman out of the way.

But France grabbed England's arm before he was able to press the button. 

Emerald eyes locked with cerulean. 

It was painfully silent. Neither looked away nor made a single sound. England's mind spun. _What am I going to do now? Why won't this insufferable idiot just go!_

“Why can't you understand?” The thick-browed man finally broke the silence. _If it wasn't for the red string, that string that marked France as..._ He refused to finish the thought.

“That's what I'm trying to do!” France retorted. “But you being a stubborn black sheep makes that hard!” Their faces were merely inches away. 

“Like you're making anything easier, you cheese loving buffoon!” That was the last thing Arthur remembered saying. 

He barely recalled using his other hand to grab France's tie, dropping the folder as he pulled him forward. Nor when he crashed his lips against the others in the midst of a retort. “Mph,” the Frenchman didn't protest, but gave a surprised look before he closed his eyes and kissed back. 

His senses were on overload.

France's cologne, the bastard's choice of reeking like a fresh bouquet of roses, filled the Englishman's nose. His heart pounded into his eardrums, threatening to break them as the scent pulled him into a lull. It was a sweet, delirious haze. There was so much to feel, so much to explore. 

Especially when Arthur's attention turned to Francis's lips. France was no stranger to kissing, England was aware of that. But his lips, his wonderfully soft lips like petals, were enough to send his mind into an incoherent disaster. _Why haven't I done this sooner?_ He never imagined to have gotten so…intoxicated whilst in the kiss. Damn it all if he was able to stay like that forever. 

When they finally broke apart, Arthur stepped back, his back hitting the elevator’s wall. That seemed to have snapped him back to reality. Oh. Half of him wanted to continue, desperate of feel again, but the other was too shocked to allow it. Francis's eyes were distant, but there was a faint smile in his lips. 

_Oh hell._

The island nation quickly picked up his suitcase that fell sometime before or after— he couldn't remember exactly when— the kiss happened and pressed the button to deactivate the emergency stop. 

Within couple of seconds, the door opened. Arthur left the elevator, trying to control his frantic breath. Francis stared at England's retreating figure, dumbstruck.

England made it to the door of his room, numbly swiping his access key on the lock. He stumbled inside and loosened his tie. The briefcase was tossed onto a nearby chair. _No, no, no. That was not what was supposed to happen!_ The first thing he grabbed was the bottle of scotch he promised himself earlier. The cap came off with a small pop. Arthur didn't bother with a glass to pour it in— it was just for himself anyways— and took a swig of the alcohol. One sip won't hurt. The burning liquid rushed down his throat. 

Three gulps of the hard liquor later, he heard a knock. 

Arthur eyed the door in disdain. 

A few seconds later, he mustered up his courage and opened the door, expecting the Frenchman. “Just forget about what happened. It was a stupid move and I shouldn’t have kissed y—?” Arthur stopped talking once he looked at his unwanted visitor. His mouth was agape.

America stood in front of him with a confused look. “…what? Dude, what are you talking about?” 

In that moment, England decided that the world was against him. He felt his cheeks grow warmer by the second. “What do you want?” 

“Uh,” the American paused before finally answering. "Germany's calling everyone back for one more meeting or something.” England frowned. _...Wonderful, another bloody meeting that I have to sit through with—_ He felt his heartbeat quicken once more. _Oh no._ Attending the meeting would also guarantee the presence of—goddamn it. 

“Earth to Iggy, you there?” 

Arthur snapped out of his thoughts. “Hell no.” _…Did I just say that out loud?_

“Wow, you okay?” Alfred snorted, amused. 

“Peachy,” Arthur snapped back. America let out a laugh, used to the Englishman’s rather short temper. It wasn't anything new—to Alfred at least.

“Jeez old man, no need to be stiff about it," the American quipped. “Just be there alright?”

“At least tell me why,” England said as he crossed his arms. Maybe he could figure out a lie to get away from it all. It was worth a shot.

Alfred shrugged in reply. 

“That's insightful,” Arthur muttered sarcastically. 

Alfred flashed him his trademark smile. “Don’t shoot the messenger, dude. Just be there at eight.” 

England responded with a scowl and closed the door. Through it, he heard a muffled— definitely cheery voice— say, “See you there!”


	2. Human

_Breathe._

Arthur gripped the door handle leading into the conference room. _Breathe and you will be fine._ He repeated that statement ever since he left the comfort of his room. But it barely did anything to ease his racing thoughts.  _Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump._ England straightened his suit, took a deep breath and opened the door. “Apologies,” he started, closing the door in the process. “I lost track of the time.”

The words hung in silence. Germany, who looked like he was there by obligation, simply nodded before returning to his presentation. As soon as he passed several nations to reach his seat, he looked at the nation placed directly across from him. Immediately, he felt his throat tighten. It was _him._

To Arthur's dismay, Francis stared at him. Flashes of what happened in the elevator surfaced in his mind. Vague recollections of his sudden decision to kiss the Frenchman threatened to send him into a cold sweat. He soon found interest in the mahogany table shortly after. Without sparing any more time, England pulled back his seat and placed himself on it.  _Bloody frog. Don’t make it more awkward than it already is._  He clenched his jaw and refused to look back up.

 _Don’t look back at him._ He chanted. _Do not look back at him under any circumstance, Kirkland._ Caught up in his thoughts, England could no longer hear Germany— or anything else for that matter. His attention was fixated on his thoughts. Unfortunately for him, they centered on the man across from him. How could France make his heart beat so quickly? How could he—the same man who had made him feel so angry and frustrated numerous times—become so… _intriguing_ to the Englishman?           

It did not make any sense.  

For hundreds of years, England labeled France many things. Whether it be a neighbor or foe, he had never thought to call France something else. Something far more personal, more intimate. At least, that’s what England forced himself to believe. He had lasted for so long as to not think about the possibility of calling France his — … _what am I thinking? Him? A lover? You’ve truly gone barmy, Arthur._ Their histories were like a labyrinth filled with twists and turns the Englishman never learned to navigate through. They would be at each other's throats for hours on end. Their conversations mostly occurred when they were on opposite sides, gloating to the other in triumph when a war finally ceased and one was a victor. It was almost always about who was better or who had won. 

It was their pattern.

No other nation had hurt, confronted, and teased France as much as he had. The Frenchman had the scars and memories— _far_   _too many than England would like to admit—_  to prove it. It was routine. Arthur never really questioned it.  _So why now? All of this because of some damn red string?_ Perhaps it was just his pride. Who in the right mind would think of opening one's heart to another? 

England blanched at the thought. He would be completely vulnerable. He was a world power for god's sake! Building relationships were too difficult and dangerous to maintain, for nations at least. But for the life of him, he could never figure out why the thought never left his mind.

“Isn't that right, England?” 

Said country looked up. Everyone was looking at him. The Englishman adjusted his tie and gulped. “Come again?” 

“I said,” Germany stared at him, disapproval evident on his features. “Relations between France and yourself have improved to a point where you two can work together, _isn't that right_?”

 _What's next? Germany wishing for Prussia to stop pulling pranks on him?_   _Why are we talking about this?_ “Of course.” _Give me a blasted break._

Ludwig nodded, “Then I expect a complete joint-report detailing plans for next year's economic progress by the next meeting.”  _Great job you blithering idiot. You managed to earn the lovely job of a glorified accountant. With Francis of all people._

“Consider it done.” _You've really got yourself in quite a pinch, Kirkland._  

“I believe that is all for this meeting,” Germany announced, his tone held a hint of relief. “Remember, the next meeting will be in New York.” Nations gave a collected sigh and quickly gathered their belongings before heading for the door.   

“Don't forget to bring coats! It's gonna be a winter wonderland by that time!” America piped in, allowing himself to stand up and stretch, nearly hitting England in the process. 

“Oi!” Arthur ducked as the younger man accidentally scattered the Englishman's papers. “Mind your space, Alfred!” 

“Whoops,” America turned to him with a grin. “My bad.” The older nation rolled his eyes and didn't say anything else. He refocused his attention to gathering the papers.

“Hey, Arty,” Alfred said as his head tilted slightly. “Are you alright? Like really?” 

Arthur blinked and did not look up. “I'm fine.” 

“Cuz, you know, you would've been yelling at me by now.”

“Correction: I would be reprimanding you, not yell. A gentleman does not yell.” By that time, it was just the two of them in the conference room.

Alfred laughed as he picked up his suitcase. “Look, if it's about that thing you said yesterday, I'll keep it between us, how does that sound?” 

Arthur's eyes widened. _So he did know..._ “Breathe a word of it—“

“And you'll probably have my head for it,” America started to walk toward the door, swinging his suitcase in a child-like fashion. “Yeah, I get it. I'll make sure your secret little crush stays with me.” 

“ _Why you little—_!”

“He's all yours, Frenchie,” Alfred declared as he passed the doorframe of the meeting room. That was when Arthur finally understood what exactly had happened. Why didn't he see it coming? Alfred was normally the first person out the door. The alarm bells in England's mind should have gone off... 

Just as America disappeared into the hallway, Francis stepped inside. “Do not blame _Amerique_ ,” France said, allowing himself a small laugh. “For once 'e did what 'e was told.”

He gulped before responding in a snarky tone. “And what was that? Lock me in with you?”            

A faint smile tugged the corners of Francis's lips. “Partially.” 

England growled in response, “I don't have time for this.”  

“W'en do you ever?” The Frenchman quipped, closing in on the other nation.  

“There is other business I have to attend to.”  

“Involving your scotch, I'm guessing?” 

Arthur's retort was caught in his throat. _How the hell did he know about—_ “I don't know what it is it with you, assuming that I would drink during world meetings,” he huffed, pretending to look offended. 

“It 'as not stopped you before,” Francis's responded, a matter-of-factly. England glared at him in return. He just had an answer for everything, didn't he? France maintained his smirk, obviously pleased with himself. 

“I don't have to answer to you,” England said with bitterness laced in his tone. 

“Oh oui,” the Frenchman nodded mockingly. “Rosbif answers to no one. Why would 'e ever bother to? 'e does not 'ave time nor t'e patience for it.” 

England snorted in annoyance. The nerve of the man! Especially with that infuriating tone! “Why do you even speak like that?”  

“Insulting ‘ow I speak now?” 

“You know english,” England argued, eyebrows furrowed and thin lipped. “And you speak it _perfectly_.” Admitting that he spoke his native language well was not an easy feat for him, but the sentence rolled out of his tongue without much thought. France’s smirk twitched. He did not answer. 

“Let me guess,” the Englishman continued. “You do it to annoy me. To _rile my nerves._ ” That was the answer. He was sure of it. What else could the frog be doing? The Frenchman’s expression did not change. It was as if he had turned into stone. Gotcha. England felt a rush of pride at that moment. He finally figured it out. No wonder when they always met, off and on the battlefield, they exchanged nothing but biting remarks at the other. France was and will always be his rival. Nothing more. All he needed was verbal proof to confirm his suspicions. He just had to say yes.  

“Non.” ...what?  

It was England's turn to become silent.  

“Must I spell it out for you, Angleterre?” Francis sighed, meeting gazes with said country. 

“Paint me a bloody picture,” England finally found his voice. 

“You misunderstand, mon cher.” Francis stepped closer to him, a little less than an arms length away. “I, as the country of France, must act like that. But moi,” he pointed to himself, “does not share the same feeling.”  

“What the hell does that even mean?” 

“It is simple, non? I am surprised that you have not caught on yet,” the smirk returned to the Frenchman's features. England pondered over what France said for a brief moment. Caught on to what exactly? God, they were just going around in circles. It did not make sense. Why would the frog refer to himself in one way then say the opposite while still talking about his own self. His words repeated in his head. 

“You hate me but you don't hate me. If that's not the answer, then I'm lost in your pompous riddle.” 

France chuckled, switching to his native tongue. “ _Ah, but that is only scratching the surface._ ”

“Enlighten me then,” England responded in his own language. The Frenchman smiled, prompting Arthur to wonder if he had just been baited into something. 

“ _As I said, France is supposed to loathe you, England. But Francis_ ,” he pointed to himself once again, “ _does not_.”

There was a brief silence. “I’m not following,” the Englishman frowned and crossed his arms.

“ _Maybe this will make you understand_ ,” Francis leaned forward and captured Arthur’s lips with his own. 

The haze was back. And Arthur welcomed it with open arms.

As the kiss lingered on, Francis’s words repeated once more in his mind.  _France and I don’t get along, I understand that much. It’s our nature to…it’s our nature to fight. As France and as England. Wait a moment..._ It never occurred to the Englishman that perhaps Francis spoke about another aspect of their existence. Not only were they France and England, they were also Francis and Arthur. Their human sides. That was it. That was the answer. 

Upon realization, Arthur broke the kiss. With a heavy breath he said, “Francis.” 

The Frenchman’s smile returned. “So you finally understand.” 

“God damn you,” Arthur replied with a scowl. “And your stupid riddles.”            

“I was only returning the favor,” the bearded man chuckled as he took a step back. “You avoided me before I could ask you questions.” He held up his hand, the one that held the red string. 

“Japan said something about this being fate, oui?” He inspected the string with an intrigued look. Arthur could only look at him in surprise. “The red string...connecting two soul mates?"  

“It must be a mistake.” England answered quickly. 

“Always so stubborn,” France sighed as he ghosted a hand over Arthur's cheek. “And in denial.” The Englishman watched him closely but he did not move. Something seemed to have caught in his throat. It was probably his heart. “Luckily for you, I find it endearing.”

“...you mean to tell me that this entire bloody time you were trying to get my attention?” For the life of him, Arthur did not want to enter a conversation to ruminate over the inner workings of his heart. Especially not with Francis. “And you knew about the string?” Definitely not with Francis.

“With you, it was a challenge even for me,” he admitted with a goddamn smirk. “It was not easy to miss the red after the elevator.” 

Only Francis could make Arthur's blood boil and yet make him want to kiss him at the same time _._ “Why the hell didn't you just tell me?” 

“I could ask the same for you.” 

Arthur huffed. “You—,” he tried to find the best words to describe his frustration. “...I want to hit you with a chair right now.” Close enough. 

France raised an eyebrow and slightly curled the corner of his lips. “Is this your twisted english way of saying you love me?”

“Piss off,” Arthur scowled and straightened his posture.  _…why do my cheeks feel warm all of a sudden?_

“Ah, it is!” Francis chuckled and blew a kiss towards the younger man. England growled. Oh curse it all, even his expression betrayed him! “Je'taime aussi.” 

England averted his eyes. Of all people, it just had to be  _him_.  _Lucky me_. They reached a stalemate a few moments later. The Englishman continued to resist the French nation's attempts at maintaining eye contact, much to the latter's chagrin.  

“At least give me a chance,” France playfully chuckled. “Get to know moi.”

“A thousand years,” Arthur responded dryly, “I've known you for more than a thousand years, you prat. That’s more than adequate time.” 

“Still not enough,” Francis shook his head, not bothering to maintain a conversation in English any longer. It was if he had withheld important details about him that England had not yet known about. “Not enough to know all of my wonderful contributions to this world. 

“Pardon me,” Arthur sarcastically retorted in his own language, “But I don't think I find your contributions of cheese and frog cuisine rather wonderful enough to woo me.” 

France held a slightly sour expression. “Fine then. You cannot say I didn't try.”  _…that was easy._  He reached into his jacket to pull out a small business card. “But thanks to you, we still have to work together for the report you  _distractedly_ agreed to.” 

“Distractedly?” England echoed. “I was perfectly fine!” 

“Ah yes, and America has no debt to China at all,” France raised an eyebrow as he handed the card to Britain. 

The latter inspected the card and found a three-digit number behind neatly printed information about a winery. “What's this?” 

“My room number.” England was ready to launch into a tirade had he not noticed the older man holding his hand up to let him continue. “To work,” Francis said, “Obviously, you would be distracted anywhere else with whoever you meet.” 

“Excuse you,” Arthur huffed. “My room is a perfectly good option as well.” 

“Not with your scotch present,” Francis countered, “Arrive at my door at seven tonight then we can get started. The faster we finish, the faster we don't have to deal with each other.” 

“Very well,” Arthur grumbled, left with no other option he could think of, “And no funny business Bonnefoy. No tricks, got it?” All he received was a faint sign of a wolfish smile before the Frenchman headed for the door. 


	3. Wine Talk

England hesitated.

His arm stayed frozen, ready to knock on suite _714_ 's room.  _Come on. Just knock already._ He double-checked the business card France handed to him earlier in the day to make sure it was the correct suite. It was.  _The faster you do this, the faster you leave._  He knocked. 

Fortunately, the wait wasn't too long. “Ah you made it,” Francis cheerfully greeted England, beckoning the Englishman inside as he retreated back into his suite. 

It was dim. The only light source was a single thin wax candle on the center of a table. The table was situated in the living room, adjacent to the windows overlooking the night cityscape. There were two chairs opposite of each other and the table was draped with white cloth. “Come in, Angleterre.” 

“Bonnefoy, I said no funny business,” Arthur stated in a flat tone.  _Really now? What the hell is this?_

“This is dinner,” Francis said in a matter-of-fact. He circled around the table and sat down facing England, placing his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. The stupid smirk was back. “We cannot work on empty stomachs.” 

“Candlelight dinner with wine?” Arthur felt like his feet were glued to the ground. _You insufferable git. This is what you planned all along...I have half a mind to throttle both you and your stupid French charm._ “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

France shrugged. “I like to indulge myself.” He reached for a bottle of wine resting in an ice bucket next to the candle, unscrewed the cork, and poured a generous glass for himself and his English counterpart. “Come now Arthur, surely you do the same thing with your disgusting English cuisine.” 

“Excuse you.” England was torn. He could just turn around and leave. Or he could take the man's offer— he did neglect to eat prior— then leave when work is finished. “I have to return to my room by midnight,” he stepped into the suite and let the door close behind him, “Let's get this blasted thing over with.” Arthur sat on the empty chair, carefully avoiding Francis's gaze as he settled down and squared away his suitcase. He managed to place an expertly wrapped napkin—courtesy of France; the git was trying to impress him! — on his lap before he finally looked back at the older nation.  _Hell and back_ , he thought,  _I would run through hell and back a million times before I let him win his stupid little game._

* * *

 

France had a dreamy expression. 

It was the best description the English nation could think of.  _He's been at that for ten minutes._ Francis's smirk softened into something he had not seen often. It was gentle and his head tilted slightly as his eyes never left the Englishman's. But then again, Arthur did finish a glass of wine and started to feel more relaxed than usual. “What are you looking at?” The thick-browed man couldn't help but question as his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Toi,” he said simply, placing his right elbow on the table and resting his head on his open palm.

“Stop that.” 

“I'm only trying to figure out how your sourcils got so big,” his smile widened. “Tell me, do you even try to pluck them?” 

That certainly irked Arthur. “What the hell does that have to do with any of this?” 

“Nothing. Just dinner talk.” 

“Change the damn subject.”

“Hm, fine. Why do you insist on wearing dated clothing?”

“I swear to god,” Arthur sighed, exasperated. “Keep this up and I promise to box that pretty little mouth of yours by the time this is over.” 

“Pretty?” France's smile grew devilish. “There is hope for you after all.” Arthur glared at him. But it didn't stop the Frenchman from keeping silent. France went on about how Arthur should see the world's beauty. England cursed the situation he was in. It perplexed him. There was no talk of war, no talk of conquests. It was so strange. So... _domestic_.

“Angleterre, my eyes are up here.”

“I know,  _snog_.” England retorted quickly, meeting the other nation's gaze.  _Snog. You bloody said snog._

There was a brief silence.  

Francis let out a laugh. “Have I enchanted you with my lips, mon cher?” 

“As if,” Arthur replied in disdain.  _Damn it why did I have to say that?_  “It's the wine.” He hoped that the wine was a simple answer to what he said. 

“Oh I'm sure,” the Frenchman drank from his wine glass and Arthur swore he saw a smirk hidden behind it.

“A slip of the tongue,” he tried to defend. Ah, but who was Arthur kidding? The damage was already done. It was France he was talking to. France, who would spot anyone flirting with him from a mile away. France, who was more attuned to the Englishman's habits and reactions than the man himself. France, who was well aware of England's tendency to deny anything and everything that would cause him grief. 

Arthur cleared his throat. “That aside, I think we've wasted enough time and should start working.” The last thing he wanted was for Francis to divert the conversation to the events of the elevator and the conference room. 

Said man placed his glass down. “Not a waste if enjoyed.” The Englishman threw a pointed look at the man. He seemed to take the hint and wiped his mouth with a napkin as he stood up from his seat. “Have it your way, Angleterre.” There was no hint of disappointment in his voice. “Where do you want to start? Business in your country or mine?” 

“Wherever the hell you want as long as I get back on time.” Francis looked at him, his eyes seemed like they were saying ‘ _work with me here_ ’. 

The Englishman relented with a huff. “Let’s do yours first, then mine, and everyone else after that.” As England reached for his laptop, which was tucked in his suitcase placed next to his seat, he couldn't help but feel that the night was far from over. 

* * *

 

In hindsight, Arthur wasn’t wrong about his feeling. He and France spent the majority of the time left after the impromptu dinner working on the report. Of course, what meeting between the two of them would it be without any form of verbal contest? They argued, criticized each other, and exchanged snarky remarks. It was to be expected. 

But what the island nation hadn’t predicted was the fact that he woke see to the same surroundings. And to a very naked Frenchman sleeping next to him. To make matters worse, he had no recollection of what happened after the report was finished for a few countries. He sat up quickly, noting that he lacked his dress shirt, vest, and tie. To his relief, he was still wearing his trousers.  _“Fuck_.” The sleeping figure, although Arthur desperately hoped he was mistaken, was indeed the French Republic.

A million thoughts ran through his mind. Majority were either _what happened_ or _oh god what did I do_. England searched any memory he could grasp at the moment. Unfortunately for him, it was a blurry mess. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. After deeming it a useless endeavor, all he concentrated on was locating his missing clothing. And also perhaps, collecting whatever dignity he had left before making a speedy exit. 

“ _Angleterre_?” Francis had a knack of making himself known at the worst possible times. This time was no different. 

“…please tell me—” the thick-browed man covered his face with his hands, “—that I didn’t do anything stupid.” This wasn’t happening. Had he really lost his self control? 

“…quoi?”

Arthur tried to ignore the brief silence as he found the missing articles of clothing neatly folded at the foot of the bed. The man grabbed them and buttoned up his dress shirt, neglecting to wear the other two. “Well?”

“…Oui,” France yawned out, turning to him with bleary eyes. 

“Yes, I didn’t do anything stupid or yes, I did?” He made no attempt to mask his haste for the door as he practically leapt out of the bed and put on his shoes. 

“You did,” Francis answered, his voice was rough from the abrupt awakening. “But—” The Englishman didn’t give his counterpart the luxury of finishing the sentence as he exited the room. _Fucking hell. Why me?_

England immediately directed his attention towards the elevators, eager to get as far away as possible. He heard France's door close and started to walk toward his destination in a quickened pace. 

“Yes I'm going to his room to check up on— Arthur?” ... _bollocks_. Said nation froze in mid-stride and slowly turned to the familiar voice. 

A striking resemblance to his brother, Canada was on his phone, dressed in a simple red hoodie and jeans. He was looking at the Englishman in bewilderment with a slight tilt of his head. “...I'll call you back Al.” The phone turned off with a beep. 

“Er...morning, Matthew,” England greeted, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “What are you doing here this early?” 

“Did you just...?” Canada's eyes flickered between the Englishman and France's room. Damn, Matthew probably saw him leave the frog's room. _Please, dear boy, don't ask any more questions._

“I had an early...meeting with the frog,” Arthur explained, reaching for his tie, only to realize he neglected to put it on in his haste to leave. It didn't look like the Canadian believed a word he said. But bless the boy, he just listened. “I have to be somewhere right now,” he gulped, “so do keep in touch.” As soon as the last word left his mouth, the door opened. 

With a yawn, Francis exited his room in a plush white bathrobe, holding England's suitcase. Arthur was the first person he saw. “You left your suitcase...” He noted the Englishman's petrified expression and looked over his shoulder. “Ah...bonjour, Mathieu,” he said as he turned to the spectacled nation.

The Canadian's mouth hung open and nodded at the Frenchman. “...I came at a bad time, didn't I?” _Oh god_. 

England knew exactly what the younger man thought. Here he was, leaving France's room in a disheveled appearance with the bloody Frenchman leaving his room in a bathrobe, holding his suitcase. To say that all three nations stood in awkward silence was an understatement. 

“We didn’t—it’s not what you think,” Arthur stammered, breaking the pregnant silence. Any lie was golden to him at this point. Oh what the hell, he might as well lie his ass off to save himself from this disastrous situation. He found himself glaring at Francis, desperate for the other to vouch for him. 

France, despite everything, offered Matthew a nod of agreement. “ _Angleterre_ had too much to drink,” he began with a chuckle, “so being the nice person I am, I let him rest here.”

“That's...it?” Canada stole the words right out of Arthur's mouth. Was it really? The Brit's memories of the previous night still escaped him. For some odd reason, the British isle was at a loss for words. 

Thankfully, France filled the silence. “Oui. We stayed up late working on the report Germany assigned us. And _Angleterre_ found my wine,” there was a twinkle in his eyes for a brief second, “even after all these years, he still can't hold his alcohol.” 

Canada's chuckle was the first sign of the tension breaking. Despite the jibe toward his lack of alcohol tolerance, the Englishman was more relieved than pissed. The frog didn't mention the dinner nor the reasoning behind his haste to leave the room. Then again, Canada probably— definitely—came to his own conclusions of what transpired moments before he spotted Arthur. At least Francis was doing something to deflect the awkward situation. 

“Mathieu,” the Frenchman continued, winking at England before turning his full attention to the Canadian. “There are papers you need to sign inside. You came here for that, non?”

As if he suddenly remembered why he was there in the first place, Canada quickly nodded. “And to pick you up,” he added, “you do remember that we agreed to take Al to the mall right?” 

“Of course,” France didn't miss a beat. Without offering Canada a chance to say anything else, he opened his door, signaling the younger man inside. “They are on the desk.” Wordlessly, Matthew glanced at England before finally heading inside. The Frenchman let the door close behind him.

Yet again, the former rivals were alone. 

“Why didn't you tell him?” The thought gnawed at Arthur the moment he heard France's explanation. It kept him from taking his leave. “Why did you lie?"

“Mathieu does not need to know about everything,” Francis answered. His response was both suspicious and a relief to the Englishman. At the very least, he wouldn't have to worry about the other nation flaunting his—their? — private life to friends and family. “And I did not lie.” 

“Yes, you did,” England replied accusingly. 

Francis shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. He faintly smiled. Arthur found himself cursing at the red string attached to his hand. “Arthur, we did not 'do' anything.” 

The Englishman's thoughts came to a halt as he processed what the other said. _What do you mean we—_ “What happened then?” 

“We did not have se—”

“I mean,” he interrupted as his cheeks reddened, “what happened instead of that?” 

“You were drunk.” 

“Right. I know that,” England muttered flatly as he rolled his eyes. “Tell me something I don't.” 

“You took off your shirt halfway through the night,” France chuckled, tapping his foot on the floor as he recalled what happened the night before, “ended up in the balcony and yelled at a few people in the street to, as you crudely said it _, fuck off_. ”

As much as it embarrassed him that did sound like something he would do...intoxicated. That was the key word: intoxicated. He would never resort to that if he were sober. “...then what?” The English nation steeled himself to hear France's next words. He held his breath.

“Obviously, you were too drunk to go back to your room, so I let you sleep on my bed.” 

“...and you slept next to me naked?” 

“I always sleep in the nude,” the Frenchman responded nonchalantly. _Oh right. This was Francis you were talking to._

“This is what you meant about me doing anything regretful?”

The older man raised an eyebrow. “Was it not?”

“No— well...” he said quickly. “I just thought...” So the panic was a false alarm. He hadn't— they hadn't—

“Mom cher,” Francis handed the Englishman his suitcase, interrupting his train of thought, “I'd much prefer you sober when we actually—” 

“Please for the love of god,” he cut-off as he took the case, glaring at his counterpart, “don’t finish that sentence.” 

France hummed and smiled. “I didn’t hear you say no.” 

“Bugger off, you damn flirt. Don't you have something to do with the boys?” England then stormed off to the elevator, suitcase in hand. His head throbbed, reeling from the previous night's buzz. He made the mistake of glancing back at France before said man retreated into his room. The frog's godforsaken smirk remained in his mind's eye like a looming presence. It only made his headache worse. 


	4. Answers

When Arthur returned to his room, he couldn't shake off the feeling in the pit his stomach. The red string was a myth. It surely didn't mean anything. Could it? Perhaps Francis was toying with him. Maybe somehow he overheard...that was not possible. England was tight-lipped about his discovery of said string. He never told a soul. 

 Before he realized it, his phone was in his hand. The person on the other line spoke first. “ _Moshi moshi_.” 

 “Hey...Kiku. There's...” Arthur searched for the right words. “...how familiar,” he brought up his thumb attached to the string and observed it, “are you with the red string...of fate? My understanding is that it's a part of some folklore.”

 For a brief moment there was silence. 

“Did you say the red string of fate?”

“...Yes.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know...how it works: who could see it, what it means— everything.” 

“...That will be a long explanation, Arthur. If you would like, we can meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes and talk there.” 

“Very well,” the Englishman agreed. “See you then.” He ended the call with a click of a button. Arthur tossed his phone on the bed and decided to freshen up before he headed down. The last thing he wanted was for Japan to catch any hint of what happened the day before. 

The British isle walked to the lobby, dressed in fresh clothes and in a slightly better mood. Aspirin was his best friend at the moment, having some effect in numbing his headache as he waited for Japan to show up. To pass the time, he distracted himself with the top stories in the day's paper he found lying on a table next to his seat. He checked his watch— he was seven minutes early. 

“Arthur?” By that time, Arthur helped himself to a steaming cup of earl grey offered by the hotel. He looked over his shoulder, folding the newspaper and placing it on top of a table next to his seat. He still had the teacup in his hand.

Japan went to an empty seat across Arthur and sat down. “Thank you Kiku,” the Englishman started. “I know the question sounds odd...I was just curious.” 

"It is fine," the raven-haired man assured. He then tilted his head. “How did you learn of it?”

 _“Japan said something about this being fate, oui?” France inspected the string with an intrigued look._ “I came across it while reading a book.”

Kiku nodded and neatly folded his hands on his lap. He didn't show any sign that he knew about the string attached to Arthur. “Let's start with the origin of the red string...” 

Japan didn't lie when he said it took awhile to explain. Not that the English nation minded at all. Frankly, it provided Arthur some answers. 

The string, according to Chinese folklore and Japan's own interpretation of it, connected two people together. It was a bond that could only tangle, but never break. Even when Arthur tried to find a loophole through carefully placed questions from different sorts of angles no matter how he looked at the concept of the string— he simply couldn't find one. According to Japan, it looked like England was stuck with France, whether he would like to admit it or not.

The poor brit allowed himself to stare at the Japanese man with an expression of disbelief. "Is there something wrong?" Japan asked, looking directly at Arthur's dumbstruck look. After the explanation, England couldn't bring himself to ask more questions. His heart had once again started to beat faster. _Just what the hell is this feeling?_ He wondered in frustration.  

"No,” the Englishman admitted, his breath was ragged, “It's just a lot to...digest. But thank you.” With a quick handshake and a small nod, Arthur excused himself to pack for his trip to return to London.  

When he disappeared into the elevator, Japan reached for his phone. He scrolled down his list of contacts until he found the one he searched for and dialed the number.  

“Yello?”

“You owe me ten dollars, America-san.” In his amusement, the japanese man cracked a smile. He always enjoyed making bets with his american counterpart.        

“He did ask?!" 

“ _Hai_.”

“Aw man...how did he react?”

“I think he almost had a heart attack.” Perhaps that was an understatement, all things considered. During their conversation, he noticed that the poor island nation darted his eyes around and struggled to find the words lodged in his throat. 

“In a good way?”

“I don't think so.” 

On the American's line, Kiku heard him relay the message to someone else. A new voice replaced Alfred's shortly after. 

“What did he exactly ask?” The voice questioned.

“He asked about the string attaching him to you. He did not seem...to accept what I told him.” 

Francis laughed. “He will never learn, will he?” Japan silently agreed. 


	5. Up in the Air

England managed to maintain his composure. He checked out of the hotel three hours ago, arrived at the international airport in one, and was finally in line for boarding. 

Music calmed his frayed nerves. It drowned out the chatter of the outside world and the intruding thoughts on a certain nation he'd rather not speak of or about. 'Focus,' he told himself, 'Just listen to the music.' Arthur wasn't too sure who was singing or what the band's name even was. It was probably one of the songs Alfred took upon himself to add when he had access to the Brit's phone. The beat was hypnotic and the heavy guitar influence definitely caught his attention. It was similar to classic rock, but with a modern flair to it. The effect of blown out speakers was a nice touch. 

Contrary to other nations' belief on the subject of his taste in music, he rather enjoyed a large array of genres. He might've listened to classical pieces such as Chopin's Nocturne 2 in E-Flat Major earlier in the day, only to replace the mood with the throaty voice of the Sex Pistols' signature singer. _God Save the Queen_ was, admittedly, his favorite song. 

Arthur quickly made his way to his seat and settled down when the singer transitioned to the chorus of the song. That was the perk of booking a first class seat. He was one of the first ones in, giving him time to prepare for the flight. Armed with a neck pillow and a fully charged phone with ear buds, he was ready to tackle the lengthy twelve-hour flight. The Englishman wasted no time and strapped on the seatbelt. He had the window seat, so he didn't have to worry about moving for the passenger next to him. All he wanted to do was to drift off to sleep and hopefully have it last until the plane landed. Sheer boredom and the fact that he couldn't escape the plane were his enemies. 

Naturally, he willed himself to suck it up. He had music to last him for a day and the plane wasn't built from the forties. It was the top of the line. It was safe. More importantly, the frog wasn't there to annoy him. When he was on the edge of losing consciousness, he noticed a faint whiff of roses. Strange. It must be from the other passengers filing into the plane. England cracked open his eyes to investigate. He lazily drifted his gaze to the passenger to his right. 

That was when his soul left his body.  _Good lord,_ _are you kidding me?!_

Twelve hours. The flight was going to take twelve damn hours. “ _What are you doing here_?” Arthur asked in a low rumble, removing his earphones. 

France was in the process of placing his suitcase in the overhead compartment. “This is my flight,” he answered dryly. 

“Well get out,” England responded.

With a cheshire smile, Francis stared back at the Englishman. “Non.” Ignoring the other's protest, the Frenchman sat down. 

“Why can't you listen for once?” 

“Why can't you let me sit next to you without complaining for once?” France retorted. 

“ _Insufferable git_.”

“ _Stubborn lout_.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and faced the window. “Piss off.” 

“You first.” 

England responded by hurling his neck pillow at the man's face. Their banter lasted the entire time it took the plane to get taxied on the runway for takeoff. To the surprise of both men, their banter had only gotten two complaints and a short warning from a flight attendant. In silent agreement, the duo left each other to their own devices and faced away from the other. Three hours into the flight, Arthur finally looked back to the Frenchman out of sheer boredom. Said man was reading a book with spectacles placed on the edge of his nose. “Since when did you need glasses?”

Without removing his gaze from the book, he answered, “A few months ago." 

“Why haven't I noticed them before?”

“You are not the observant type, Britain.”

Ignoring the other, Arthur pressed, “Then why didn't you use them when we were working on the report?” 

“You were too drunk by the time I did.” His eyes never left the page. The questions didn't seem to have bothered him too much. Wordlessly, Arthur drummed his fingers on the armrest. 

Another uneventful hour passed. By that time, Francis closed his book and put it away. He ran a hand through his hair. Then his eyes caught the red string. As if he'd forgotten it was there, he stared at it for a minute. “Do you think we'd work?” He asked suddenly. 

The Englishman “What kind of a question is that?”

“My question. A simple one.” His voice is lower, quieter. Oh...he was serious. “Now answer me. Do you?”

Two answers came to England's mind. No and Yes. 

No for the very reason of their existence. They always argued on anything and everything for as long as he remembered. It wouldn't work, a little voice in his head warned. It wouldn't. The man is his rival. He did not call France his enemy for kicks. 

But he doesn't call France his 'dear' enemy for no reason either. Of all of the constants in his life, strangely France was one of them. From the their first meeting in a vast forest to the trenches of the First World War, Francis was— whether by choice or by chance— by his side. This did not change even when they entered the modern world. But the one thing that did, England mused, was how they treated each other. England was not deaf, although he tried his hardest to be, to the gossip of the nations'. Of how he and Francis squabble like an old married couple. Even they could sense something between the both of them, to his everlasting frustration and embarrassment. “If I say no,” the Englishman began. “What would you do?”

“Then that is that. The end,” France's tone sounded forced—perhaps hurt, but sincere. “I do not chase after those who don't want to be chased.”  

Arthur paused for a brief moment.  _Then why do you chase after me?_  

It was then when he realized that he wasn't entirely honest with himself. Yes he constantly told the Frenchman off, scowling at his advances. It registered in the Englishman’s mind that he wanted to be left alone. Yet he was always ready to find an excuse to argue with the man. Francis seemed to have understood this. It was frustrating, as it dawned on England that the Frenchman, his rival and enemy, knew more about him than his own self. “And if I say yes?”

France's eyes lit up. “Then the only thing that changes is the sleeping arrangement,” he joked. He leaned towards Arthur and asked softly, “Do you really mean it?” Francis sounded like a child who had been given the world.

Arthur took in a sharp breath before he made up his mind. “The day I become overly nice, is the day you should run.” 

“Agreed,” Francis grinned. 

“And to be clear, there won't be any strings attached.”  

The Frenchman laughed. “ _Au contraire_ , Arthur,” he held up his hand to show the other the red string. “I don't think that is an option.” 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first part of "Strings Attached." 
> 
> Reviews and comments are always welcome to improve my writing!


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